


To be at odds

by CountDraluka



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angela-centric, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, First Kiss, Morally Ambiguous Mercy, My First AO3 Post, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountDraluka/pseuds/CountDraluka
Summary: Angela has her first kiss at the age of 23.





	To be at odds

**Author's Note:**

> I like to believe that Angela and Moira kept a secret relationship for decades; that they remained together, both as partners and lovers, even after the rise of Oasis and the fall of Overwatch. This is the beginning to that story.

Most people have their first kiss at the age of 15. Granted, the number may vary depending on gender or culture - some groups aren't familiar with kissing or don't consider it a sign of romantic affection at all - but it is generally accepted that most individuals reach that “milestone” sometime after puberty. Generalizing once again, the experience is usually less than what was anticipated. It may happen at a damp playground one morning, far way from the prying eyes of teachers and parents, at an innocent house party, during a game of Truth or Dare the host picked especially for the purpose of feeling like a grown up, or during a lousy school dance, with overrated music setting the atmosphere while a chaperone runs over with a ruler. Some forget about it, others remember it with bittersweet nostalgia for a time when things were simpler. Some are pleasantly surprised, others are deeply disappointed, or perhaps even pay it no attention at all. Years pass and they later tell the story to their children, who are now going through the same insecurities they once had to face.

  
There's nothing to it, really.

  
Most people have their first kiss at the age of 15. Then again, most people don't get a Phd at that age, or become head of research at a prominent hospital, or resurrect people at the middle of a bloody battlefield. Angela is not like most people, and even though she truly believes that her purpose is to help those in crisis, she does sometimes wish for the things a guardian angel is not allowed to have. Those things can be metaphorical, such as the peace of mind that your coworkers won’t have their head blown the next day and that you will be the one picking up the pieces, or perhaps just ridiculously mundane habits, such as having freshly brewed coffee and a full night of sleep. Going to the movies every so often, spending the whole weekend in pajamas, waking up in a soft bed instead of the harsh leather couch of her office.

  
Angela had never been a teenager, and at the age of 23 she felt no closer to being an adult. She sometimes doubted whether or not she could even be considered human.

  
Angela hadn't had her first kiss at the age of 15; she'd had her last hug, given to her by one of her university roommates before each went their separate way. Even then she'd been in the receiving end, and the act had not lasted longer than a couple of seconds. Impartial, indifferent, polite at best. She'd had plenty of handshakes after that, though, handshakes with military officers and government officials that left her hands sticky with the blood they had spilt. Nowadays her hands were dry, probably because of how meticulously she would wash them after coming home from meetings, scrubbing away imaginary crimson like the poor Lady Macbeth. Touch starved, deprived of any sense of security and comfort, Angela was sure to become just as mad as the Scottish queen. She'd hoped joining Overwatch would be the cure to that problem, prayed silently that she'd find a family amongst like-minded soldiers who, like her, were ready to sacrifice their lives in humanity's sake.

  
Her wish had come true, in a sense. Ana Amari offered her warm tea and the motherly advice she never received, Reinhardt brought Swiss chocolate and shitty German puns whenever Angela seemed down during briefings, Jack and Gabe gave her the battle training that would later on keep her alive, Winston proofread her reports and the new recruit Jesse came crying to her with ripped knees and teen tantrums. However, it did not take her long to realize that her new family could be ripped from her arms at the pull of a trigger, just as fast as her real parents had been taken.

  
Mercy was part of the team, Angela was not, at least not in the way she had dreamed of as a hopeful child, because she now understood that having a family meant the possibility of losing it again.

  
That is why, when invited for a team dinner after a particularly difficult mission, Angela preferred to stay behind and lick her wounds at the solace of her empty office. Empty, however, was a loose term; there were files and documents scattered all around, cables and chargers tied in a dangerous knot that powered her precious computer, and a half empty mug of lukewarm coffee already stale. She had promised herself to organize the room once she had settled in, that she would buy white curtains and welcoming plants and set up a whiteboard at her door so people could leave messages of encouragement. More than a year passed, and the closest she got to the plan was ordering a fake cactus online, which now was nothing but a depressive green decoration at the corner of a shelf. Angela had picked a polished stone from the front lawn so that it could make the cactus company, but ended up losing it amongst her papers. The lack of life of the office, interestingly enough, allowed her to work endless hours without distractions. Made it easier to detach herself, to pretend that the tapping of her nails against the touchscreen was just as fulfilling as a nice conversation in front of a fireplace. It was good enough, surely.

  
There were three other researchers that worked in the same medical wing as her. The first, stationed right across the hall, preferred to work from home and never made an appearance in the base, except to use the state of the art equipment nobody could afford to place in their scientific Bat-cave. He was a quiet man, never disposed enough for a discussion, shaved head and thick glasses that made him look like an alien. Angela couldn't recall seeing him in person more than twice. The second, whose office was the closest to the engineering wing, was a short and plump woman who spent whatever leftover funds she had in designer bags and red-soled heels. The rumors said she was married to an Italian billionaire, but she brought a different arm-candy along to each formal event Angela had had the guts to attend. The woman was friendly enough and often picked up Angela’s orders of test tubes and petri dishes from downstairs, so she wasn't going to judge.

  
The last one stayed at the end of the corridor. Angela could hear the methodical taping of her stiletto heels walking past her door when she came in early in the day and when she left late at night. That, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed to decay whenever she was around, leaving behind a scent of musk and flowers that made Angela’s stomach twist up in a knot.

  
You see, Angela was a generally kind person who gave people time to prove themselves before she made a final judgment about them. Her call sign was not in vain: she could very well be merciful, to give second chances.

  
Moira O’Derain was an exception to that rule.

  
Tall, lithe, with serpent eyes, Moira became the vilest person she'd ever met the moment Angela laid eyes on her. The geneticist hadn't even spoken a word before the thought of beating her with her prototype staff bubbled up to Angela’s mind, bringing along an acid discomfort up her esophagus and rushing blood to her eardrums. When Moira did speak, sultry voice and Irish accent, talking about progress and practicality and evolution, the discomfort settled into unadulterated loathing. And, during that first meeting, when Angela spoke up about her code of ethics and indirectly criticized Moira’s methods, the feeling was reciprocated.

  
Angela disliked Moira for a myriad of reasons, one of them being the undeniable chemistry that flowed between them, like two magnets that defied the laws of physics in order to be attracted to one another. However, it was because of how contradicted she felt whenever the geneticist was around, confused and excited and deeply annoyed at the unfamiliar thoughts that danced around her mind, that Angela declared the woman her first real enemy. So began some ridiculous kind of scientific Cold War, with one trying to make the other crack. Snarky remarks at the coffee lounge, documents that went missing only to show up at the most unlikely places, dead bacteria and decaf coffee labeled as the real thing. They made each other's life difficult, set up traps and challenges as though it were a childish game, yet never actually sabotaged the other’s work. That would be going too far, at least for now.

  
Both with controlling personalities, it almost felt like it was impossible for them to exist at the same time, similar to how wild animals marked and protected their territory with teeth and nails. Moira criticized Angela's optimism, claiming that it was a byproduct of her inexperience and that it had no place in an institution like Overwatch. In response, Angela dove head first into her research, bringing about the miracles in nanobiology that made her adored like a goddess and left Moira green with jealousy. They split the team along with them, Ana and Jack rooting for Angela, Gabe and Gérard supporting Moira. Angela hated the situation, yet hated even more that Moira seemed to take great satisfaction from it.

  
Maybe Angela did too, deep down, she just could not bring herself to accept it. She liked the attention she got from Moira.

  
Angela had not heard the stilettos that morning or the day before, so she assumed her archenemy had taken a couple of days off to skin puppies or whatever other gruesome hobby she had. There was only silence and numbers and the data from the bacteria Angela had regrown from scratch, an ambient that would have made any other person go mad but that she tolerated for hours on end, like a machine that ran on batteries and the spirit of a workaholic. It was past two in the morning, and the handwriting that started neat somehow ended up crooked and inconsistent. Tired from her research and from herself, the leather couch called Angie in as it always did, but the effort of getting up was hardly worth it. Instead, her head dropped on top of her papers, pen still languidly grasped in her hand, days of insomnia and exhaustion finally dawning down on her.

  
She felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders, a lazy smile crawling upon her face with the grace of a well-fed cat, and Angela drifted into a light sleep without a care. She dreamt of snow, then of the video game she stress-played last week, then of her childhood bunny. Then of stiletto heels, of black suits, crimson lipstick and the sweetest perfume. Of slapping that sharp face, pulling that ginger hair, only so that she could kiss it better herself.

  
“You're drooling on your research. The ink is going to smudge.”

  
Angela shot up straight, heart jumping out from her mouth and hands reaching around for her pistol, a reaction that simply added to Moira’s face of arrogance.

  
“What? Way past your bedtime, dear?”

  
She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and lips pressed into a thin smile. Angela, still drowsy with sleep and in a much worse mood, took her time staring at the woman, silently debating whether she was an hallucination or not. She could very well have been, but the unusual dark circles and loose tie were not things her mind could have conjured up. She might have been wicked, but Moira always looked like she got plenty of rest.

  
Angela satiated her doubt by harshly crumbling one of her notes into a tight ball and throwing it in Moira’s general direction, who proceeded to grab the ammunition with a swoop of reflex and the crook of an eyebrow.

  
“So the devil is real after all…”, Angela stated with a snicker, wits coming back gradually. She turned on her chair and crossed her legs, looking up at the intruder with narrowed eyes that could rip someone apart.

  
“What the hell do you want at this hour, Moira?”

  
“Not to be attacked, for one. But really, I just thought us two night owls should have a chat. From doctor to doctor.”

  
Moira took the liberty to move forward, taking long and gracious strides until she was towering over Angela, mismatched eyes dancing over the papers on the desk in what felt like a disrespect of privacy.

  
“I'm not one for idle conversations, especially when I have better things to do.”

  
That was a lie. Angela adored whenever someone cared enough to ask her how her day was going.

  
“And I respect you for that. But indulge me, will you?”

  
No, Angela thought, though I don't actually want you to leave.

  
For someone so lonely as Angie, the whole scenario felt like a bizarre dream. Moira was close, perhaps closer than ever before, but not in a way that implied she was about to pounce and rip Angela's neck with her claws. Tangible, instead of the usual cloud of smoke. There was almost a calm understanding between them, like an agreement that there were no ill intentions in the meeting. She made an effort to believe so, at least, and Moira did deserve some trust for being awake at such ungodly hours.

  
In response, Angela gestured for her to go ahead, leaning back on the chair and letting out a tired sigh. With a pleased smirk, Moira tapped the side of her eyepiece and transferred a document to the computer screen, Angela’s eyes burning from the brightness of the white light. Moira typed a couple of commands into the keyboard and specific segments of text light up like a medical Christmas tree, then took a step back so Angela could read what she'd written. Her hand had brushed past Angela's arm, but neither of them acknowledged the fact.

  
A paper about genetic engineering and DNA reconstruction, as expected, but as Angela read on and on it became clear that the research was not just one of Moira’s sudden bursts of curiosity.

  
“Since you mentioned that one of the troubles you'd ran into with your… Resurrections was that most of the cells still had to be functional for your nanobots to salvage the scraps…”

  
There was amusement and pride in Moira’s tone as Angela's eyes dashed through the information, disbelief holding back all her emotions and throwing her in the pits of defensiveness. Suddenly, the rain came crashing down and everything clicked in Angela’s head.

  
Moira hadn't just gone off into one of her usual inquisitive quests, oh no.

  
She had gone searching for the missing pieces. Taken Angela’s work apart, bit by bit, and filled in the gaps with the knowledge Angela couldn't bring herself to go after. Sure, it might have just been a rough draft, but the information on the screen was exactly what Angela needed to make her goal viable. Everything was crystal clear, except for every single consideration that popped up in her head, wrecking all her composure like a hurricane. What Moira had done to get the results, why she had done it, what she discovered and how it could be used. How Angela had never even imagined the solution, and how glad she was that Moira had been the one to dirty her hands to get it.

  
“Using the DNA to reconstruct the cells, instead of replicating the ones still alive…”

  
“And what does that mean, angel?”

  
It means bringing people back from the grave, you brilliant bitch. Proper dead.

  
Like her parents. Like the rest of Overwatch, if need be.

  
But how can one spend years dedicated to such a major technology, doing most of the crucial work away from the eyes of the public, in complete and utter isolation, constantly questioning their own abilities, only to have their worst enemy waltz up with the rest of the puzzle, dashing smile and all? It'd be unfair.

  
It'd be too good to be true.

  
Angela shut the screen off immediately.

  
“No. No. Healing soldiers who did their duty is just first aid, this is not. This is wrong.”

  
“It might be, but I don't think it is our place to judge that. Just give them the choice. If someone wants to stay dead, we can just kill them again.”

  
Angela felt sick, dizzy and confused as though the ground had vanished from under her feet and she now went spinning down the rabbit hole. She was like a child on Christmas Eve, sitting next to the coffee table and biting her fingers not to steal one of the warm cookies that were meant for Santa Claus. Well aware that her intentions were malicious, that she would disappoint herself and her parents, but having already accepted that she'd do it anyhow. Because she'd been a good girl all year, worked hard on her homework and eaten her vegetables. She was entitled to the cookie; it was simply a question of waiting for her mother to give it to her or getting it herself.

  
Angela became a doctor so she could cheat death. She could do it in thirty years, with government funding and bureaucracy as her shackles, or in five, with Moira's research as her freeing card.

  
You can't, said the good doctor in her.

  
You must, said Mercy.

  
I don't know, Angela answered back.

  
“Leave.”

  
The distress must have shown in her voice, because Moira took a step back into her professionalism, putting on a neutral face and straightening her posture so Angela could no longer feel her by her side, and as if she were made of hot iron, her absence left a burn.

  
“What a pity. Well, if you are decisively against it, then I can do little to change your mind.”

  
The room seemed darker, as if a shadow had simply crawled in.

  
“Thank you for your time, doctor.”

  
Her voice was cold, though not in the belittling tone she was so accustomed to. She sounded disappointed, the realization of which made Angela's heart crunch in visceral guilt so strongly that her first thought was to apologize. Not daring to look, Angela remained quiet as the stilettos tapped away from her, until they hesitated for a moment.

  
“We do make quite the duo, you and I... So much for lost potential.”

  
Moira smiled at her.

  
“Dear, you know where to find me.”

  
Their eyes met as Moira closed the door behind her, and Angela would never forget the feeling when her unjustified hatred melted away into something else. Then she was alone once again, with all of the freedom of the world to go back to her unsatisfactory sleep habits or continue on with her data, yet her brain decided to crash from the excess of information and leave her sobbing instead.

  
She couldn't decide whether Moira's intentions were noble or not, for there was no argument she could imagine that would justify going through such troubles to solve the problems of somebody that never did as much as lift a finger in your favor. The nanotechnology that made resurrection possible was patented to the Valkyrie suit, knitted into it with so many safety precautions that only Angela could make it functional, all from fear of the wrong person deciding to play god. Without the suit, Moira wouldn't be able to use it.

  
Without Angie, to be exact.

  
On the other hand, the geneticist was not known for random acts of kindness. Angela wondered what there was to be gained from the collaboration, what two solitary geniuses could possibly do together that did not involve Angela’s repressed feelings, certainly not reciprocated.

  
As always, good things did not come easily to Angela Ziegler.

  
The little voice inside her head promptly warned her to let the event go, to smoke a cigarette and get some sleep before heading back to her research like she had originally planned. Angela tried to follow the advice, dried the tears from her eyes with a thumb and picked up the lighter from her desk, but the ache in her heart was still there when the smoke blocked out her lungs. In fact, for the first time in a decade, Angela did not manage to push her loneliness down, and the sudden lack of control over her emotions made her go insane.

  
Unsure of everything, she turned the computer on again, where Moira's words stared back in disgust as she went over them once more. Just as she was about to let her head drop over her papers, an almost empty page at the top of the document made her do a double turn. An acknowledgment, a single sentence in italics that said way more than you would assume.

  
“To our guardian angel, who abstains herself from the glory she deserves.”

  
After zooming past such a wide range of emotions, Angela decided to focus on how insulted she felt. Because, out of all Overwatch members, out of all amazing professionals she admired, out of all the heroes she pledged to keep alive, Moira was the one Angela didn’t feel morally obliged to heal. The only one who didn’t have the right to think so highly of her. She did anyways. Because there was something patronizing to the fact that her rival thought she could do better. Because her enemy should not know her so well, and Angela should not agree with her.

  
The research must have been a peace offering of sorts, a sign that Moira's patience had run out and that she would now see to her matters personally. See them done, she'd say. Offending Angela was never enough; she had to make her run after the last laugh, to fight for the dominance.

I dare you to be the devil of this deal we are making, was what she meant.

  
Brilliant as she was controversial, it came as no surprise that Angela's sleep deprived mind reacted just as Moira had predicted. Impulse spoke over reason, and Angela took no time to exit the cocoon of her lab and run across the hallway, a weird sort of heat popping inside her chest like firecrackers, sweaty hands running cold. She had to be quick, to do it before the adrenaline drained from her system and left her rational once again.

  
The white door opened before her, and Angela took no surprise in seeing Moira sitting there, looking over from her desk with an almighty look of “I fucking knew it”. Angela did not forgive her, though, yanking the woman from the chair by the lapels of her lab coat and pulling her forward with such aggression that Moira's spine almost snapped in half.

  
“If we are doing this, we're doing it my way. Are we clear?”

  
“And have to follow Morrison's childish guidelines? Obey to their rules like some rookies? Darling, I don't th-”

Angela slapped her, hard, right across the cheek.

“No, liebchen, I am making the rules.”

Angie is tugging at her tie.

“Heh, I can work with that.”

Their lips are almost touching.

“Good, then I can work with you.”

Angela has her first kiss at the age of 23. It is three in the morning in a dim science office, far away from the rest of the world, no teachers or parents to hide from. There is no game of Truth or Dare, no point in proving their maturity, and in fifteen years neither of them can recall exactly who kissed who first. Angela does remember feeling particularly giddy afterwards, drunk from relief and fatigue, and Moira resents still the sting on the side of her face. Nevertheless, the kiss is all raw with teeth and tongue, tastes of the cigarettes Angela tries to quit, feels like the solution to all their momentary dilemmas. It is both wrong and right, and that hardly matters, because the only other person that could understand what it is like to have your humanity slip from your fingers is holding onto Angie for dear life, giving her the validation she so desperately needed.

She stops caring then and there.

It takes a kiss to prove that Moira isn't that wicked, and that Angela isn't that holy. That neither of them is inherently good or evil, that both are equally capable of giving and taking, that they are not so different. Yellow and purple are complimentary colors, after all. Angela discovers how softly her enemy's hair tangles around her greedy fingers, flame-colored strands that tickle her nose once she buries herself into the embrace and puts all repressed frustrations to good use. Moira is nothing but prim and proper, perfectly poised and elegant in every small action, gentle as though Angie is made of glass, yet Angela uses her inexperience as an excuse to come crashing down in passion, setting such a liberating tempo to their tango that Moira can't help losing her balance. They stop when the A.I announces that the rest of the team has returned from their celebrations, requesting medical assistance for those who drank too much, and the dread that is the following morning begins to prey on them, an unwelcome reminder that whatever was left unsaid must be discussed as soon as possible.

  
Before Angie can leave, lips stained red, already prepared for a sleepless night, she places her hand carefully over the bruising skin on Moira’s face, who does not flinch in the slightest at the touch.

  
“I still despise you.”

  
“Why am I not surprised?”

  
Most people have their first kiss at the age of 15. Granted, they're not Angela Ziegler.


End file.
